


Unceremonious

by misreall



Series: An Arrangement [1]
Category: Loki: Agent of Asgard, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Horn Stimulation, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Oral Sex, Ritual Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26047498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misreall/pseuds/misreall
Summary: Neither Loki nor his bride to be especially wants to get married.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: An Arrangement [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2151882
Comments: 63
Kudos: 176





	Unceremonious

**Author's Note:**

> The last of my Summer of Overused Tropes series.

_Where they are_ ...

The crowd waiting for them to solemnize their vows was anything but solemn themselves. The normally dour court was in the highest spirits. Drunken revelry was not merely the order of the day, it was the barest minimum of questionable behavior. Decorum, dignity, and clothing were all tossed to the wayside and the only reason it seemed no full fornification was taking place was the need to bear witness to the act for the marriage to be considered legitimate. She mumbled something about not wanting to be seen after taking off the ceremonial robe she had worn so very briefly. She had one arm crossed over her breasts, and her free hand covering the small patch of hair visible between her legs. He was not sympathetic. “It’s hardly anything to be so distressed about.” “That’s really easy for you to say. Your body is perfect.” “Take comfort in that, nydelig. It means no one will be looking at you.” “There are times I honestly think I could hate you.” He looked down at her, frowning hilariously, “Please don’t say that. It hurts my feeling.” “Your feeling?” “Yes, vanity. I need everyone to adore me. Come along now.”

_How they got there..._

Nye leaned her forehead against the window of the highest tower in the Fortress of Útgarðar. The room that had been prepared for her there was warm which was a relief after the hours she had spent at her wedding feast huddled in a fur robe, worrying that her tongue was going to get stuck to the cutlery if she tried to eat anything. 

At least they had heated the wine they served her, though by the time it actually reached her lips it was starting to chill. 

The Jotnar responsible for decorating the room had made an effort in the direction of comfort for her, even if the room was rather small. Nothing too fancy was needed for the bride of the King’s least favored child. In addition to the coal braziers they had placed in the corners there was a heavy, dark carpet on the floor, several furs on the bed, even hangings imported from Vanaheim, which both kept out drafts and helped her feel a bit more at home. 

Then she looked out at the frozen, blasted cliff wall and the mountains of ice, and even that tiny illusion was gone.

There was a brisk knock at the wood and brass door, and before she could cross to it or even call out, Loki let himself in. 

Nye was surprised, then remembered they were almost completely married now, and sighed. “Is it time?”

“Not quite,” he answered, “my father is still consecrating the ritual space. You should be grateful, as I convinced him and the priests that it wouldn’t offend the spirits of Ymir, or Hyrrokkin, or any of my other tedious antecedents, for there to be a covering on our family’s ancient and honorable ceremonial _fuck_ platform to protect my delicate little Vanir bride’s precious skin.”

For a second Nye pretended to be shocked by the Jotun Prince’s crudity, then snorted a laugh that was half real amusement, half nerves. She and Loki had been affianced since they were both toddlers. Her father got a valuable military ally for his brother, King Njörðr, his father, King Laufey, got a boatload of rare gems that the Jotunheimr coffers needed after his costly wars with Asgard.

They both also got rid of a spare child. Nye had six sisters and seven brothers so there were days she was fairly certain the only reason her father could pick her out from the rest was she was the only non-blonde. In Loki’s case, Laufey considered his size to be the sign of the disfavor of the gods and had removed him from the line of succession in a ritual that involved the sacrifice of a dozen herd animals.

The Jotuns had a ritual for everything, it seemed, each more horrible than the last.

So she and Loki got shafted. In her case, that was soon going to be literal, as the last part of a Jotun wedding was the public mating of the couple. 

Over the centuries of their betrothal Nye and Loki had only met in person a handful of times. 

The formal handfasting on Vanaheim when they were both adolescents. They had barely spoken or even looked at each other, but when their hands had been symbolically bound together with red silk they had shared an eye roll.

At his coming of age she had presented him with a dagger that had belonged to her great-grandmother Nerthus of the Oceans. At hers, he had given her a palladium necklace hung with milky green crystals that his great-grandfather Thyrm had plundered from Vanaheim during the reign of Nerthus of the Oceans. 

He thought it was funny. Nye did too, but she had to pretend she didn’t in public. 

They were both gawky and awkward and never did figure out what to say to each other. She knew that he was studying magic on Jotunheimr, despite the Frost Giants famous lack of respect for the art. Since she herself wanted to study witchcraft like her Aunt Frigga, she thought they could talk about that.

When she brought it up, he turned his head away from her, haughty despite being half the size of any of the other giants around them, and his horns being little more than buds. “Magic is for girls. I have left that behind with other boyish things,” he said, his voice hitting several different notes and cracking rather hard down the middle

“Magic is for anyone clever enough to do it. Which you clearly are not,” she snipped back. 

When the years leading to their impending marriage started to wind down Nye started to panic. She didn’t want to marry him, even if they were to live on Vanaheim. Actually, that was one of _his_ father’s conditions. “Let the little snake go live with the other pretty little things in your pretty little Realm,” he had told her father when they made out the marriage contract.

Nye didn’t want to marry anyone. Yet, at least. She was too young. She wanted to travel, to explore, to study. She had even been invited to spend a full turning of the Seasons studying witchcraft at the Viskuhús. But there was nothing she could do about it. Her wyrd had been sealed long since.

Or so she thought.

Then, one morning, to her entire surprise she received a letter from Loki, delivered by unseen hands to her pillow. Apparently magic being for girls didn’t mean he had really stopped practicing it.

_...Having learned I will never please my father, or bring honor to my ancestors, I now seek only to please myself. Power pleases me the most, be it through magic, force of arms, seduction or, most boringly, funds..._

She wrote him back, using a similar spell.

_...Then I don’t see any reason for you to waste your time on me. Your magic seems to be as accomplished as mine, I don’t know a sword from a laser cannon, we are to be bedded under force of law, which I am certain will be great fun for both of us, and with a family the size of mine funds are never boring. Finding enough to go around is a positive adventure…._

He responded, the letter appearing tucked in the pages of the book she was reading, which he apparently had read and didn’t think much of. 

_…If your family has no money how are you paying the magnificent dowry that persuaded my father to give me up. How he weeps over the thought of the loss of me…._

Her in kind response - which he found folded around one of his practice swords, included her surprise that there were any books to be found on Jotunheimr at all.

_...King Njörðr. Our marriage is a way for him to form an alliance with Jotunheimr without directly offending his brother-in-law, the All-Father. So glad to be of service to the crown, and all that, but I wish he’d grown a spine and married one of his own daughters to you instead. Everyone is so terrified of that one-eyed bully…_

The next morning she found a piece of paper, folded up in the toe of her slipper. When she unfolded it the page was blank, but Loki’s laugh floated on the air. Though she would never admit it to him, she kept it, tucked in the same box as the necklace. She kept all of his letters, rereading them over and over, when she felt alone as she was tossed through the rolling sea that was her massive family.

And so it went, for years, letters and notes sent back and forth through the aether, one upping each other in both style of dispatch and prose. Nye hated to admit it, but Loki was better at witty set downs and elegant delivery - one letter had arrived in the form of a massive, green and gold moth that alighted on her knee in her parent’s garden before unfolding itself to turn into seven pages that illustrated the beginnings of a plan to get them both what they wanted.

…. _Just because we have to dance to their tune on the day of our wedding, it does not thus mean we cannot choose when we wish to leave the fete. Or that we need go in the same direction when we do depart. All that is required is the will and the way.._.

Their correspondence lasted until the day she arrived on Jotunheimr. Though she hadn’t come to like her arrogant near-spouse any more than before, she did at least feel a sort of kinship with him. Elegant, witty, curious, and easily bored, as well as small and weak by the standards of his people, he no more belonged on his stodgy, traditionalist, militant Realm, than she belonged on her twee, serene, boring one.

“Your parents aren’t going to be at the ceremony, are they? Are mine?” Nye felt like she was going to be sick. 

“No. Even a Jotun male could not be expected to perform under those circumstances. The priests and priestesses will be the final authorities. Although I’m not sure of what. Perhaps they write a score in one of the sacred books or something…?” he wondered idly. 

Nye rested her throbbing head back against the cold window. “Is everything else-”

Loki interrupted, “Yes,” regally inclining his head towards the door, indicating they were not alone and could not speak freely about their plan to defraud their fathers so they would have enough money to go their separate ways and live as they chose.

For Nye it would be witchcraft and travel. For Loki? He had more plans than there would be millenia for him to fulfil them all, but she knew him well enough from their letters that she would be hearing stories of his wild, ribald, power hungry exploits until she died.

It would be easy for her to slip away. When not dressed in Vanir finery she was unremarkable enough to attract no notice. But Loki… Jotnar were rare enough in the Realms, but an incredibly small Frost Giant - who towered over most other beings despite that - would be memorable enough if it wasn’t for… 

For…

For, as much as Nye hated to admit it, his unbelievable beauty. It was unfair how beautiful he was, actually. He was all barbarian splendor and yet weirdly refined.

From the tips of his perfectly spiraling horns, lightly gilded in honor of the day, to his black, wild hair barely tamed by silver clasps, to his haughty, elegant face, his long neck, his broad shoulders, the deep, indigo of his flat nipples, his muscled, yet lean torso and arms, his -

Nye stopped taking inventory before he smirked at her any harder, obviously used to being an object of admiration and preening under her gaze.

All of him covered in velvety, cerulean skin marked with caste lines that drew the eye to all sorts of those embarrassing places that she was about to get to know very publicly. 

“Here, _nydelig,_ ” he reached somewhere under the skimpy, formal kilt that along with his boots and a few bits of jewelry was all he wore, and handed her a small, black bottle. “Drink every drop. It will not assist with your nervous state, but it shall keep your delicate little cunt from freezing when you receive me.” He said the last with the ponderous tones of the high priest that had over seen the less humiliating portion of the wedding.

Uncapped, the bottle gave off a smell of sweet spices. She raised it to him, and realizing that he had been more than comfortably forthcoming about his personal affairs but she had not been likewise, she said, “I’m not a virgin.”

Her husband looked at her with wide, wounded eyes, “But I saved myself for _you_!”

Half of the syrupy potion nearly ended up shooting out of her nose and into his red eyes as she fought not to aspirate it while laughing.

When they arrived at the ceremonial chamber, which had a name that defeated Nye’s very limited Jotnar, they were each taken to a separate changing area. Nye’s enormous attendants, beautiful, warlike Jotun girls who all seemed to know her new husband rather well, stripped her, looked askance at her decidedly small, rather normal looking, and utterly unwarlike self, had a good laugh, and then wrapped her in a much too large, purple silk robe that was elaborately embroidered with all sorts of dreadful looking monsters, and hustled her back out stand next to Loki. 

At least the potion was working. She was barefoot, and wearing next to nothing, but she wasn’t cold, even when she was signalled to remove the robe and take Loki’s hand. 

When she slid her hand into his, she rather hoped for a comforting squeeze, then remembered who he was, which led to her mumbling about not wanting to be seen. 

The space where they were to perform was very much like the other public spaces in the fortress - a cavernous space hewn from dark rock and then polished smooth so the low light gleamed against every surface. It was grand in the coldly austere fashion of the Jotnar themselves.

They were presented to the crowd by the attending priestess, which roared with lusty laughter at the sight of the two of them. The massive stage upon which they were supposed to perform was made for creatures much larger than they were. Loki had to all but toss her up onto it, and then vaulted easily next to her.

“Does _anyone_ adore you?” she snipped at Loki, already exhausted. 

When they reached the stupid plinth thing that they were supposed to fuck on, he turned on his heel and smiled down at her, “In the sense of loving me? No. In the sense of worshipping…? Oh, yes.” Raking his fingers into the short hair on the back of her head, he pulled Nye’s head gently back and leaned over, whispering against her lips, “Let me show you why.”

Her funny, semi-friend, her witty conspirator, was suddenly gone. His heavy-lidded eyes burned, and there was a languid tension to him that made parts of Nye go suddenly not just warm, but hot. Her idea that they would just get it over with was apparently not his plan.

As splendid looking as he was, Nye had been too nervous about what was happening, about their plan, about having to strip off her clothing and let him fuck her in front of a massive crowd of giants to be at all aroused. Trepidation and misery, and a little sorrow that she was never really going to be married in the best sense, since neither of their cultures allowed the dissolution or divorce, were all she had felt for days.

Looking at her husband, he was calm and ready, his cock thick, long, and hard, it’s blue turned dark gentian as it swelled. If they were alone Nye was certain that the sight of him alone would be enough to stir her, to make her at least feel something other than dread.

Then Loki kissed her.

It started with a bit of a tease. Thin, cool lips, that grew steady warmer, brushed over hers, then the brushing grew firmer, pulling down her lower lip, teasing the delicate, inner flesh there with the very tip of a clever tongue that made her gasp. When her mouth opened he pressed the advantage, now insinuating, playing. 

“Relax, _nydelig,”_ Loki whispered against her mouth, “Let me take care of you. Good,” he breathed out the last word.

Nye’s eyes closed and she felt that touch of his tongue everywhere. Play became more serious, his fingers tightened in her hair, and his other hand wrapped about her throat, holding her still, none of it hurting but all of it implacable. 

Oh, she had kissed enough before to know this was not a kiss to be recovered from, to be forgotten, though she knew that it was all art and no feeling on Loki’s part, Nye had to let herself feel just a little, she had to pretend just enough.

That kiss made it easy. Gasping under his mouth, she sought to touch, to run her hands over that velvety blue skin. Finding one of the long caste marks on his back, Nye remembered something she’d read and slowly dragged her nail down its arabesqued length. 

There had been one book on Jotun physiognomy that she had been able to find on Vanaheim. She may or may not have read it several times attempting to prepare herself.

His back arched, pushing that hard torso against her, the marks on his chest rubbing her nipples. Panting, he pulled back, his mouth a snarl of lust, “Bad girl.” Letting go of her throat a taloned hand cupped the back of her thigh, and thrust his leg forward so she was split on the muscled ridge of his thigh. Until the cool, hard skin touched her there she hadn’t realized how wet she was. 

So much bigger than she was, it took Loki no effort to work her back and forth on him, as he dragged his teeth down the side of her neck. It felt amazing, all of it. Nye couldn’t help herself, she grabbed his shoulders and used their breadth and marvelous solidity to help herself grind. 

“How many times would you like to come before we finish this performance?” He asked, already back under control. 

Nye didn’t like that. 

“This means we are fully married, yes?” she managed to say, which made him shake his head and smile with annoyance that she could express herself in full sentences. 

“Yes, but why-”

Nye’s hands left his shoulders and found his horns. They were minutely ridged and not just warm but hot. Still kissing, she unconsciously ran her hands up and down them, mimicking the way that she would love to tease his cock.

The roar from the Jotnar that she had almost managed to forget made her jump, but Loki growled and held her tighter, unable to keep himself from biting her and jerking his thigh up hard, making her cunt pulse and beat, looking for something to hold.

Upon reaching full maturity no Jotun was to allow anyone other than their mate to touch their horns. Partly for reasons of honor, but mostly because the very base of them, where Nye’s hands squeezed, were an intense erogenous zone. Probably the only one on his body that Loki had never let anyone explore.

Gathering her up, his strength meaning he could easily ignore her attempts to lock her legs around his thigh, Loki carried her to the ground of the massive plinth where she was aware that there were thick furs covering the cold stone. Caging her with his arms, his burning eyes met hers, “Let go,” he ordered. 

Her hands were still locked so hard around his horns they ached and it hurt to open her fingers.

Chest heaving, he stayed there for a moment, then lowered himself, slithering down the length of her so their skin grew familiar, then roughly pushed her legs apart and lowered his horns to bathe the base of them in her wet. The even louder roars of the Jotuns covered the sound of Nye’s scream as she pushed herself against their length and came. 

Then he crouched, one hand on her belly to keep her still as he lapped between her legs, deep into her, his tongue cool, firm, and insistent. Not sure how he could breathe, so deeply he seemed buried in her, Nye could only writhe under that hard hand, wrap her legs around his head so his silky hair teased her thighs, and grasp his horns again as she rode his mouth.

The shouting from the crowd died down and in its place there started to be a steady, slow beat, that sent a deep tremor through the room. The Frost Giants were stomping out a rhythm, making the floor vibrate under her back, through her skin, her bones, and through his tongue, licking in time with the stomps.

It was too much. She burst out laughing as the second orgasm sent dark waves of pleasure through her. Before she came back to herself Loki was over her again, his face flushed and wet from her, a wild smile showing his long, white teeth. “You are the strangest girl,” he said.

Then he hooked an arm under her waist, sat up, and all but dropped her on his cock, so they could fuck for all of his people to see.

It hurt like heaven. The hard jolt energized her.

“Ride me,” he said, “show me what those pretty hips can do.” The words were calm but they puffed out of his tense mouth. 

Nye put one hand on his shoulder for balance, and the other on his strong chest for fun, and snaked her hips, squeezing her thighs, as he kept talking, low enough to not be heard over the steady, yet growing faster, thump of the Jotnar.

“I want to see you come this time, wife. Oh, you like it when I call you that. I can feel you squeeze me tighter when I say that. My wife, my sweet little Vanir mate, riding me hard enough to rip my cock straight off. I’m going to unravel you, Nye.”

A clever hand worked between them, and a firm finger played with her clit until she fell apart against him.

Then, he kissed her again, taking her mouth, her breath, as if he needed it more than she did, laying her flat, and fucking her hard and fast in time to the now galloping speed of the stomping feet. 

Nye couldn’t take much more. It was too much. Too much pleasure, too much like something more than a ritual and a means to an end.

Now even Loki’s body was straining, his eyes so black that the little of the glowing red that showed were like the edge of an eclipsed sun. He was close. Nye locked herself about him, grasped his horns for what would be the last time, loving the feel of them on her palms and whispered, “Fill me, _lífiðkamer_.” 

One of the only words of Jotun she knew. 

The low growl he gave did something to her nervous system, and even though she would not have thought it possible, she came again, around him, and then almost again at the look on his face as he fell apart, too.

After he rolled off so not to crush her, they both lay, silent and stunned. Even Loki seemed uncomfortable and couldn’t meet her eye as the Frost Giants fell upon each other, delayed gratification over.

_A bit later_ …

While the orgy continued, the priestesses had brought the robes back to the new couple, and led them out to finish the final bit of business, which had to be conducted immediately. Not even time for a quick toweling off, which left Nye horrified.

She was thankful that their parents and a few honor guards were the only ones in the throne room.

As it was, she was so tired she could barely lift the chest of gemstones to present to King Laufey. Fortunately, now that they were married, Loki was allowed to assist her. As they bowed together to set the chest at his father’s feet, he turned his head so his long hair hid his face from everyone but Nye.

And winked.

“Yes, well,” her father harrumphed, deeply embarrassed by everything that had happened since they arrived on Jotunheimr, “we’ll be off for Vanaheim then. If Prince Loki is ready to leave.” Normally it would be expected for the newlyweds to spend at least a day or two in seclusion in the Prince’s rooms, but Laufey had made it very clear that the sooner his smallest child left, the better.

Loki stood and smiled at his new in-laws, “Why, father,” her father flinched, “I couldn’t _be_ more ready.”

_Afterwards…._

Nye jumped onto the moving Ley Line train. As a member of the royal family, even if an unimportant one, she was supposed to have traveled by private vehicle everywhere. But she had spent plenty of times in disguise - which basically meant wearing normal clothing and not walking around with her chin up, acting like everyone else had a slightly unpleasant odor - journeying about Vanaheim by train.

Now, today, for the last time she would take the Ley Line to the capital transport center, and be off planet before anyone noticed she was gone. By the time anyone figured out that most of her dowry jewels were fakes Loki had created she wanted to be long gone. 

If Loki was half as clever as he professed to be he wouldn’t be far behind her. As it was she felt a little guilt that she had left without saying goodbye as she passed the closed door to his private bedchamber. A little guilt, and maybe, were she to be honest, a little regret as well. Though she knew he would not feel either thing if he were the one to leave first.

The conductor pointed to the private compartment she had splurged for. The Line took a full day to cross the Realm and those pleasant, little wood-paneled rooms had surprisingly comfortable seats that converted into even more comfortable beds. One of the porters offered to carry Nye’s bags, but with her share of the dowry, and a few magical items stashed in them she felt safer not letting them go. 

Fumbling with the door, Nye was annoyed to find that someone was in her so-called private compartment. 

An Asgardian male, surprisingly dressed in Vanir high fashion with a black frock coat and wool trousers and lace dripping from his cuffs, was slouched on one of the seats with his long legs in gleaming riding boots propped on the other. His hat was pulled down over his eyes, and his arms were crossed, so she was fairly certain he was asleep. All she could see of him was a pale, pointed chin, and one very elegant, large hand.

Turning to call for the conductor to remove him when a velvet rasp with a bored tone said, “I paid a reasonable enough bribe to be let in here that I very much doubt _I_ would be the one asked to leave if you insist on calling that obsequious little man who is in charge of this conveyance.”

The sound of his voice did things to her that Nye didn’t want to consider too carefully.

He slowly uncrossed his legs and lowered them, motioning with his hand for her to take the now free seat. She took it, sinking slowly down while staring at him the way a rat would observe a cobra that didn’t look hungry. 

Wary as fuck.

He still slouched, with his thighs wide, and pushed his hat back with the side of his index finger that he then rubbed his bottom lip with as he started drowsily at her, a slow smirk raising the side of his mouth. His eyes were no longer red, but bottle green, his skin unmarked, his horns gone somewhere.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed. “Why do you look like that?”

“I thought it less conspicuous and more comfortable. As to what I am doing here…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a familiar looking piece of black note paper. “On Jotun, as I told you, the study of magic is crude and frankly I learned everything I could possibly pick up there ages ago.”

“You want to study witchcraft?” Nye was incredulous. Almost incredulous enough to ignore the warmth moving through her veins at the smell of him - pine, and amber, and smoke - filling the little compartment, and the sound, and the sight.

The smirk turned into a full, shit-eating grin. “I have always liked black.” He reached up and pulled down the shade on the door, “Now, since we are going to be travelling companions for a while, it is only polite that we keep each other entertained.”


End file.
